A lonely terrace of a hotel in the historic centre of Zurich was the chosen location to meet Roni Horn, (New York, 1955), who was just passing through the city. The American artist had just opened an extensive exhibition at the Glenstone Foundation in the outskirts of Washington DC, which will remain open for a year. Horn is a multi-disciplinary artist and in her intellectual and spiritual universe written language occupies a central place. She avoids dialectics gesture in her work, and instead embraces plurality and openness both mentally and interpretively. She does not aim to represent, but rather to create art in its own right that generates experiences in the viewer. Identity, difference and changeability are concepts that underpin her work. We enjoyed a long conversation on a very pleasant day. It was a sunny day and we had a pleasant and long conversation.
Could you tell me about your exhibition in Glenstone?
The Glenstone foundation is really fascinating because it collects certain artists in depth. It has the largest collection of my work in the world, across the whole range: the photographic installations, the sculpture installations, the drawings. It's a commitment, a great recognition. When I organised it I wanted to develop an experience for the viewer based on surprises, on unexpected things; so that in each room you're starting again, experientially.
You express yourself through visual art, but you write as well. When did you feel the need to be an artist?
From the beginning. I seemed to go in the direction of the visual arts, but Society pushes you into defining yourself with words. However, it seems you can't be both a visual artist and a writer. I think of myself as simply an artist. Somebody who has the need to do the work I do, without focusing exclusively on the visual aspect. I also do monologues and performances now and then, so I don't feel obliged to work in just one idiom.
Why is drawing so important to you?
It's very, very important to me. In one of the rooms of the exhibition there are monumental drawings, drawings that can take years to complete. They’re very meticulous! Right now I'm working on a show for the Menil Museum in Houston with the title When I breathe I draw.
A very meaningful title
Drawing is about the relationship with oneself, it’s something I need to do. For me it’s never been about having an audience.
A photobook on Iceland, constant travel… What is it that draws you to Iceland? Are you escaping from the world?
Good question! I never know what I’m escaping from. I think I’m escaping now. But back then – to put it gently – I was "finding myself". I’ve been travelling to Iceland since 1975, l’ve seen all of it. I was 19 at the time.
Is escaping from the world a way of finding yourself?
Maybe I was going into the world. I took a tent, I was on a motorcycle, outside in the open air, on my own. It was more about getting a sense of myself, in solitude. Iceland at that time was a place where a woman could travel without any fear and it really changed my life. No fear of male violence, and no fear of animals. They don't really have any predators there. So I felt confident I could handle it, even being a Jewish girl from New York City. And it really changed my life. Not just as an artist – Iceland's been one of my big influences – but also in terms of my sense of self, my potential.
Can you identify any special feature of your childhood that led to you becoming an artist?
As a child I felt I was often moved, whether by a tree or a beautiful spoon. I was very aware of harmony, of qualities, and it didn't need to be beauty. It needed some kind of resonance, I was very aware of that.
You had a special sensitivity…
Yes, a kind of awareness of things since I was a child. And retrospectively I wonder about that. I was quite androgynous, and this androgyny opened up a wide chasm between my perception of myself and mainstream culture. It may be hard to imagine it now, but back then it really mattered whether you were a woman or a man, there was nothing in between. And I was convinced that I didn't clearly identify either way. That wasn't an easy path back then. Now it's amazing how much things have changed. The young generation doesn't care what you are. It's fantastic.
Your writing shows that you've been through a very fruitful process of introspection. Do you feel the need to write?
When I do feel the need to write, it's quite powerful, but most of the time I don't. The last text I did was for the artist Robert Ryman. I met him in College when I was very young. I was a student at Yale and he came one day as a visiting artist. I fell madly in love with him. To this day he's one of the most special people I've ever met. But I never shared this special relationship with anybody.
Thanks very much for confiding in me.
So people at the Dea Museum asked me to talk about Bob. They knew I really liked his work. So I spoke about him and it really was a beautiful moment. We used to go to jazz clubs together. He also educated me, not so much by speaking, but by inviting me to his studio. I was just 19 when we met. So he was very generous. I wasn't even an artist, just a student.
About writing, why were you so interested in the poet Emily Dickinson? She spent her life trapped in Massachusetts. This wasn't physically your case, but can you identify with her at all?
I can identify with her in general things. I work with the writings, and I connect so strongly with the way she uses language and what she has to say. It's like a bullet in the head, it's so profound. It’s life-changing, at least for me. Also Clarice Lispector, the Brazilian writer. Both affected my perception of myself and my idea of art.
And did she influence you in your search for solitude?
There might be a connection there. But it's not so much solitude as remaining outside of the world.
Do you need to communicate with an audience?
I'm a very solitary person and as I get older I need more solitude. I don't like to be in the centre of things, it's not my personality. I do like to talk and I like to connect profoundly with people, but it's usually a one-on-one thing.
Considering works such as You Are The Weather, repetitions are always different and what's identical is the fact of repetition, like in an eternal return. Do you see identity as a continuous repetition of difference? Do you feel that difference?
That's a wonderful question, and I think I do. The Rose Problem is that, and so is Dead Owl. Not so much in itself, but in each viewer who brings the question "Are they different?" to the work. And Aka the collection of photographs taken from my history. Is this the same person?
Yes, it's amazing
The guards at the Whitney where I first showed it thought it was many different people. The audience didn’t think it was one person, which I loved. When I showed it in the Tate, my original idea was to do a group show of myself. And I feel that's what I do. This "continuous repetition of difference" is a fascinating way to put it, as that's really all you get, whatever you chose. I wrote a text once called Island Freeze , and that's exactly what it's about. I'll send it to you. That's what it's about, that a thing multiplied by time, or while it lasts, is different. How profoundly different? That depends on your perception. But there's no other way for it to become real than through perception. So yes, that's definitely something I've engaged with in all my work; including in sculpture, although less literally. It’s the idea of coupling, of pairing things.
But these pairs are the same, they're not different. It's a repetition of the same things, isn't it?
I'm trying to think if that's true… For the most part all the pairs are identical in my work. But it's how they're installed that provoked the question; the same object in two different rooms, or a piece like Dead Owl. And people are always asking if they’re the same. It never fails. It's quite amusing! There are now three dead owls; the first was a pair of snowy owls, the last one was me. The format is the same, but people are still looking and asking whether they’re the same. Yes, it's the same if you say it is.
As your work is so complex, how would you like people to approach it? As experience? As knowledge?
I like the idea that it's an experience, a performative thing. That's where its heart, its real value can be.
But do you think that knowledge also helps to better understand and experience the work?
It would mean you experience it differently. You don't know if it's better, but yes, differently. I've always shied away from giving information, but I see that people struggle with that. I like the idea that the meaning of the work is the experience, that it's what you take from it.
But you already open up with your work. It's all there.
Yes, I love that idea. But that’s also asking a lot of an individual. There's such a range within an audience. There are those who want to know what they're looking at before they even get there...
Which artists from the past are you interested in, which have influenced you?
I think the greatest influence on me has been from literature, including non-fiction. In the visual arts there are so many I’ve been moved by, and many contemporary, conceptual artists.
It’s interesting that most of the influence on your work is from literature.
And from language.
Do you also look for your inspiration in literature?
I don’t know if I look for it. I’m just attracted to certain writers... I’ll tell you a story of when Trump was elected. I had just finished an exhibition and I was returning to the studio. I didn’t leave for about two weeks, I just read. I read War and Peace. I had to be in another place and that was how I did it. And it was very effective. There I was with Tolstoy and Napoleon.
Tolstoy is always a wonderful choice
Yes! It’s the beauty of it, the quality of the writing, and also how things change over time, how things degrade.
It’s a good way to escape, I suppose
Yes, I guess it was an escape, but it helped me come back to myself.
That’s very important. It seems you have a healthy mind.
Maybe. But now we need to have a drink. A real drink.